


What are you Doing New Year's (New Year's Eve)

by persnickett



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Multi, New Years, Thominewt, bisexual mittens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22118536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persnickett/pseuds/persnickett
Summary: Nobody oughta be all alone on Christmas.
Relationships: Minho/Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 85





	What are you Doing New Year's (New Year's Eve)

**Author's Note:**

> Thominewt. Because. Well this is the fandom that breaks me, blah blah yadda blah, it's been said. 
> 
> Not smut but Mature scenarios just the same. And the rest is pure holiday fluff. :)  
> Happy New Year! <3

“ _I won’t ask for much this Christmas… just to maybe never hear this song agaaaain,_ ” Thomas sings along, through his gritted teeth.

He pushes his fingertips to the sides of his temples and drags his thoughts forcibly back to the row of horrible snow globes facing him like a panel of jurors about to hand him down his sentence of death by repetitive shop carols, and sighs.

He’s no Grinch, really. He likes Christmas. He does. He loves hot mulled cider and crackling fires and the smell of pine, and sledding and snow. And not least the way the chill in the air would be turning Teresa’s nose pink and sniffly right this moment back at home, and basically transforming Chuck’s cheeks into ripe, round little candy apples that sometimes make a person honestly consider taking a bite out of him. (He would taste just like gingerbread. Thomas has always assured him of this, ever since his toddlerhood.)

And _yes_ , _fine, Mariah, I love you too_ , he allows, making a brief little internal apology. Sure, it’s going to suck spending it alone for the first time this year, but Thomas pushes away the thought that he should have considered his folks’ offer to fly him home for the break a bit more seriously maybe; tried to scrape up a little bit to help chip in, perhaps, and he resolves to focus. They can’t afford it any better than he can – hence the whole overseas scholarship deal in the first place – and he’s already subsisting on his basic meal plan and the occasional ramen cup, so he can consider the barrel already more or less fully scraped.

  
He knows it, they know it. And he’ll be fine. And so will they, although probably pretty damn disappointed in him if he doesn’t get a Merry-Fucking-Move-On basically yesterday. It’s just.

Dammit. He’s hot, he’s tired, he’s definitely, definitely left this way way too late, and it’s not Mariah’s fault that between his rowing schedule, his work placement and his Chem final his life, emotional and physical wellbeing, and apparently the entire use of his brain for anything other than atomic structure and stoichiometry has been confiscated until further notice.

But still, the ache in his head has started throbbing along to the beat like it has wormed its way somehow inside of his skull. Each and every last jingle of sleigh bells feels like it’s jingle-fucking-jangling directly on top of his final remaining nerve, and his skin itches insistently where it’s still sweaty from rushing from shop to shop under his scarf – yes it’s probably not cold enough for it here but his mom knitted it expressly to take with him and he’s a grownass adult and makes his own decisions and—

Thomas takes a breath. He’s just mounting another last-ditch effort to cajole what little battery life his brain has left into tackling the thorny decision between the equally egregious globe choices of Big Ben in the Snow vs Queen’s Guardsman in the Snow, when he hears a sound that actually _is_ music to his ears (sorry again, Mariah).

“I still think you should get your Aunt Mildred that bobblehead of Boris Johnson…” 

A voice. Smooth and melodious and flowing silkily through the carol-drenched air like a ribbon of fresh cream. And shot with the heavenliest accent Thomas has heard in months. Or maybe even his lifetime.

“Oh thank God,” he breathes, a little dramatically maybe, as he whirls hastily around to grasp at the sleeve of the poor hapless soul walking by like it’s a lifeline dangling from a passing ship and Thomas has been living out _Life of Pi_ for what has to be at least the last twenty-seven minutes.

“You’re _American_ ,” he asserts. Just narrowly missing finishing his sentence with the new word now crowding all the other, semi-sensible, at-least-partial-sense-making ones out of his overworked brain instead.

And that word is _Hot_.

He is looking into surprised, almond-shaped eyes a rich, warm shade of chocolate. A set of impressive shoulders is pushing the duffel coat Thomas is currently clinging desperately onto broadly open over a physique that has clearly seen a lot more gym time than Thomas has been clocking since the rowing team knocked off for the winter after the regatta – which was going on several weeks ago now – and their study schedules took over.

The pretty brown eyes shift down to where Thomas’ grip sits, with what looks more like benign amusement than hostility. Thomas lets go anyway.

Not the most opportune moment to realize he’s still wearing one of his mittens – probably part of the reason he’s too hot – but his mom made those too, just for him. They’re a lovely, very adult shade of charcoal, thank you, with a stripe that runs in a circle around the circumference of the fingers in a proud little band of pink, purple and blue and they— are completely beside the point, at the moment.

He opens his mouth to hopefully make some sort of passable apology or explanation, or any intelligible speech at all come out of it, but another voice altogether has entered the scene, tripping lightly over itself a little onto Thomas’ admittedly abrupt interruption.

“You aren’t the one who’s got to worry about walking in on her trying to make out with it a— Well _there’s_ words you don’t hear every day in London.”

Thomas tears his eyes away from Buff Asian American only for them to land him in what is just as much if not what might arguably be more danger. Hot American’s shopping partner is Blond and British and _Blinding_. He’s not built like his friend, but a little taller maybe – though it’s hard to say because Hot Asian’s hair has a height and a lacquered gleam to it that is downright impressive – and with the slim frame and upright bearing of a fashion model, with striking, sort of elfin, features to boot. Like half-elven, half white-hot-iron-poker-to-the-eyeball. That kind of striking.

Either London is really offering up its A+ material today or Thomas has been spending too much time holed up in the library surrounded by chemistry texts. He wonders if fluorescent hi-lighters can kill brain cells.

“Korean-American,” his shining, sexy beacon of hope is saying now, though. “Or, twenty-five percent Cambodian-American, seventy-five Korean.”

“And one hundred percent moron,” British and Blinding chimes in, raising a takeaway cup to his lips and providing conclusive proof that an act as simple and silent as a sip of coffee can still somehow come off sarcastic. “Don’t be mean, Min.”

Buff and Broad rolls his melt-you-on-the-spot brown eyes in reply. Thomas successfully does not choke on his tongue.

“Name’s Newt,” the blond Brit introduces himself. “This is Minho.”

“I’m… in so much trouble,” Thomas admits, giving up on introductions halfway through, his shoulders slumping in shameful defeat. But he lets his eyes widen a little in that way that usually helps plead his case when it comes to missed curfews, or professors known to be stingy on granting extensions.

The Blond Bon Bon – Newt – raises a stunning bronze eyebrow that looks sharp enough to split atoms.

“Sorry,” Thomas says. And oh man, here it all comes. “I just, I can't get a signal in here, and I have like a hundred and twenty-seven bucks left in my account and a grand total of zero more hours to shop before I can send gifts home with any chance in Hell of them arriving before Boxing Day, even. And it’s hot, and I— Just math isn't— HOW MANY DOLLARS IS THIS, HELP.”

Minho, his American saviour, looks down – a little like he’s trying not to go cross-eyed – at the potential purchase Thomas has thrust only slightly manically in front of his nose. Which for Reasons that presumably once existed but now seem to have abandoned him like the foul traitors they are, appears to be a plush banana, sporting a slightly creepily grinning cartoon smiley face and half-peeled out of its skin, which for some reason is patterned in Union Jack red-white-and-blue. The bell on the bottom of it jingles pathetically. Thomas isn’t entirely sure it’s not a cat toy.

“Twenty-five,” Minho says, taking one look at the price on the tag and calculating the exchange with just as much practiced ease as predicted.

“What?” he asks, when Thomas manages to slump even lower and apparently look even more tragic. “Twenty-five is less than one-twenty-seven, last I checked.”

Thomas sighs. “I need thirteen of them.”

“Big family?” Newt asks, sympathetically.

“Catholic.”

“Ouch,” mutters Minho. Newt casts him a Look.

“First time away for the holidays?”

First time away for anything, anywhere, if the truth were to be told. But Newt’s tone is unexpectedly friendly, and surprisingly… soft. And Thomas’ throat is doing this thickening, lump-forming thing, so he just settles for nodding and trying not to swallow too loud.

Newt takes another considering sip of his coffee, that somehow manages to inspire so much more hope than the sarcastic version.

“What’s your name, Trouble?”

“…Thomas.”

Newt sucks his pearly, even teeth, and nods sagely. “Come with us, Tommy.”

And that’s how Thomas finds himself rushing out into the dwindling afternoon after a pair of handsome strangers.

(And then right back into the store, blushing and apologizing profusely to the sound of the blaring shoplifter alarms, to return the forgotten banana still clutched in his bisexual be-mittened hand.)

***

For what feels like the first time in weeks, Thomas breathes. He can take in the cinnamon in Minho’s harvest apple cider from here, and the peppermint in Newt’s candy cane mocha.

Maybe it’s the kind of magic that can only happen at the holidays, but he’s not sure he’s ever been more grateful to two complete strangers – or, at least they were mere hours ago, but that’s not a word that seems to fit anymore, with the sort of festive warmth and gratitude nesting cozily somewhere above his heart – for abandoning whatever plans they must have had for the day and basically adopting him.

In retrospect, Thomas isn’t sure why he didn’t think of it himself. Surely he could have googled ‘thrift shop’, but the upshot is he finds gifts for everyone at the little vintage treasure trove his holiday helpers guide him to. A fancy equestrian themed scarf for Mom and a beautiful brooch for his Nana that the shop girl insists was once worn by Princess Diana. He even scores an ugly figurine of a bulldog holding a Union Jack like the one on Judy Dench’s desk in the James Bond movies that will enrage Teresa in a scenario of the best case, or make her question his sanity at the very least. Or, with any luck, both.

Best of all, it all weighs a lot less than thirteen snow globes, and hence costs a whole heck of a lot less to post. So Thomas ends up with enough cash left over to pay for Express Delivery and the assurance that his family would receive their care package with days left to spare. Newt and Minho even stayed with him the whole time so they could show him around to the post office once he finished – the one off the High Street that stayed open the latest – so he could stop rushing around like the chaotic, headless foreigner chicken that he was.

And now, because Newt apparently cannot go for a period longer than approximately twenty minutes without some species or another of caffeine in his hand, they are seated in a small café that serves what just might be the most delicious hot chocolate Thomas has ever tasted – he has a suspicion the secret might be just a hint of orange – and he would be happily humming along to the dulcet tones of Mariah playing gently over the speakers, if he weren’t so exhausted from the day’s errands. And maybe just the tiniest bit… sad? To say goodbye, maybe?

So it’s a total of 2.4 seconds before words to pretty much that exact effect are tumbling out of his mouth, because apparently the day’s holiday miracles do not extend to Thomas being granted any sort of filter.

“Aw,” Minho croons, leaning satirically back in his chair in a manner that happens to show him off to quite spectacular advantage. “Can we keep him?”

Newt’s eyes glitter over his cup and the way Thomas can feel him stretching out on the booth bench next to him gives the distinct feeling his foot is sliding over the floor until the toe of his shoe is bumping Minho’s meaningfully under the table.

Now. This is something Thomas hasn’t been able to work out.

It’s probably just his usual Disaster-Bi gaydar going haywire, because Minho just happens to broadcast that charged, sexual energy that can’t help catching almost everybody’s notice. And from what he can work out from their conversations with the shop attendant, the barista and even the postal clerk, that devastating bedroom gaze that says _wouldn’t you like to know, darling?_ is just the way Newt looks at _everyone_.

Thomas knows, because he’s been watching. And not just because of the vague, repeated moments of what is almost definitely just wishful thinking (or is it?) he keeps getting, that one or both of them might be flirting with him.

He’s been watching them together because Minho and Newt have an easy, familial sort of affection that suffuses all of their interactions, which is both beautiful and disarming. And it seems pretty clear from their discussions on whether or not they really needed a new used teakettle that they’re flatmates at the very least. But Thomas still hasn’t been able to pin down whether or not they’re an actual couple.

The look that the two of them are exchanging now does nothing to clear matters up either, because there’s nothing soppy or romantic or particularly coupley about it, at all. But then, Thomas isn’t about to say that it’s merely _friendly_ , either.

It’s hard to think of a word for it that isn’t simply… _conspiratorial_.

But Thomas is out of time to be trying to dissect the non-verbal messages clearly passing back and forth between the two, because Newt’s hand, which Thomas is abundantly aware has been stretched out to rest casually along the back of the booth behind him for the entire time they’ve been seated here, is moving. To sit warmly atop his shoulder.

“What do you say, Tommy? Up for a little Christmas Cheer?” And a single bold fingernail punctuates Newt’s question by tracing an interrogative little question mark into the back of Thomas’ neck, making him jump and blush.

Any response Newt might have shown to Thomas’ reaction is hidden as he delves into his cup for one of his patented slow sips. Minho’s expression is as pacific and softly amused as it ever is.

And no help whatsoever.

“I. Um. You mean. Back at your place?”

Newt doesn’t even bother to turn a glance his way, still apparently not done with his cup. But he draws another shivery little mark into Thomas’ skin before he finishes his drink and sets it down; inverted this time, so that the curves complete the suggestive shape of a heart.

“You know what we mean.”

***

“Damn,” Minho pants, his smooth skin slick against Thomas’ back as he lets himself collapse sweaty and spent down over top of him. “I knew this was one of my better ideas. Only the kind of weirdo that wears fucking _mittens_ would be down for what we just did.”

“Oi,” Newt’s complaint comes from somewhere under the region of Thomas’ navel. “In sort of a delicate position here?”

Thomas plants his palms to the mattress, grunting a little with the effort as he presses up and backward – wrung out, and limbs shaking after the long exertion – to lift both of their considerably larger bodies up and off of Newt.

“It’s over, greenie” Minho points out as he rolls exhausted and warm off of him and to the side, sending up a flurry of downy white feathers. Thomas has lost track of who was responsible for some of the destruction, but he’s reasonably sure he owes somebody a new duvet. “You don’t have to impress us anymore.”

“Oh. Beg to differ, mate.”

Thomas shouldn’t be blushing, not after what just happened. Or the thing before it. And the stuff in the shower, of course. …And actually all the stuff before that. But the appreciative way Newt’s eye is following the line of his torso as he moves so that they can all more or less right themselves on the bed is already making his body react in ways it actually shouldn’t be capable of again so soon.

What the _Hell_ did they put in that hot chocolate?

“Wait, with what,” Thomas pants, not quite making it onto his back as he collapses in the middle, their skin damp and sticking together, and apparently of no concern to any one of them. “That I don’t need to impress you anymore? Or that it’s over?”

Newt simply raises an eyebrow at where Minho’s hand has flopped down for an exhausted landing in the centre of Thomas’ chest. It’s holding his phone.

“If I have anything to say about it?” he asks, already moving closer before Thomas has even finished entering his number, his breath a humid and promising tickle in Thomas’ ear that just barely precedes the tip of his tongue. “Both.”

Thomas gasps as the moist heat of Newt’s mouth closes over his earlobe, and Newt hums delightedly. He must have found a leftover smudge of chocolate sauce that they missed.

“Come here, Trouble,” Newt murmurs.

Thomas fumbles in the last few digits and hastily hands Minho his phone back.

Neither of them need telling twice.

***

Thomas gets the WhatsApp notification inviting him to Christmas Dinner less than 48 hours later.

  
_What should I bring?_

_Your A-Game_

Minho texts, seconds before Thomas can see both of them typing at the same time, and then:

_Also handcuffs._

Is what pops in from Minho, just around the same time as Newt sends:

_Handcuffs_

_Hey not my fault you’re too slow!_

_You didn’t mind ‘slow’ last night, wanker_

_Wanker? No that’s Thomas’ job now_

Thomas spends a good minute and a half giggling at his screen in the middle of Starbucks while the ‘somebody is typing’ bubbles show up once, then twice, then no less than three times before a reply from Minho’s name comes through again.

_  
  
_

_Minho’s phone has been confiscated  
  
  
_

_And Newt needs a new password._ Is the response from Newt’s.

_Just get your hot, weird ass over here._

_Will do._ Thomas sends back.

  
  
And he brings the cuffs.

(And his mittens.)

***

“Wow,” Thomas breathes into the warmth of the cup Newt hands him. He takes a long, indulgent sip before reaching up to set it back on the side table from their little nest of blankets on the floor. It’s not mulled cider but Newt brews a mean Lady Grey, and Thomas is getting pretty partial to a cup with a slice of orange. “So. …What are you doing New Year’s?”

Newt doesn’t answer him right away. He’s lighting a cigarette, fingers having abandoned their games in the crown of Thomas’ hair in momentary favour of their vendetta with the lighter. And Minho is busy drawing lines along his back by the tree’s coloured lights that feel distinctly like he’s playing connect the dots with his freckles again. (Last time he swore if that if you do it right it makes a giraffe, but then that time he had been using the long, slow scrape of his teeth to draw the lines, and pausing to dole out swift, sharp little ‘punishments’ every time it made Thomas laugh. So it was probably going to take him quite a few more tries to replicate his results. Which: Good.)

Newt takes a long, slow draw of his smoke, and straightens his paper Christmas-cracker crown.

“Reckon we could figure out a few ways to get into Trouble,” he says, significantly.

_Mmmm yeah_ , Thomas thinks to himself over the idyllic crackling of the Netflix fireplace as Newt’s slim, clever fingers return to their dance of soft strokes and idle tugs through his hair. He can feel Minho’s cheek dimple in a silent smile where it is nestled comfortably in against the nape of his neck.And also _Hell yeah._

_It’s gonna be a_ good _year._


End file.
